


In the Dirt

by arrozconmangos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gardening, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Post Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:28:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrozconmangos/pseuds/arrozconmangos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer in Beacon Hills and Gerard isn't dead. This is really bad news for Stiles and Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> *Sneaking this in before the premiere next week. To all of you that will be able to watch it live, I say :P
> 
> Alternate Summary: Stiles and Derek play the saddest game of footsie ever.

\-----

This is how Stiles’ luck works. 

It’s summer, which means everyone is on vacation except for him because County Sheriffs do not take vacations and therefore neither do their children.

Even Scott and his mother have taken off down to San Diego to visit family, which leaves Stiles completely alone and bored. 

He does not deal well with alone and bored. 

He’s just standing on the back porch contemplating the feasibility and cost of converting the backyard into an urban vegetable farm and how easy it would be to hide a few _special_ plants in the back (for profit of course) when Scott calls, panicking.

“Dude, you’ve gotta do me a favor. Please.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “A favor. Of course. Sure. What is it?” 

He can hear the wind whipping through car windows on Scott’s end of the line. Stiles knows from experience that Ms. McCall has a massive lead foot and they’re probably halfway down the coastal highway by now.

Scott clears his throat. “Remember when I was at Derek’s the other day, with Isaac?”

“Yes,” Stiles drawls, already not liking where this is going.

“Well, I think I left my bag there, with my stuff inside.”

Stiles shrugs. “So, get it when you come back.”

“No,” Scott whines. “You don’t get it. My bag with my _stuff_. Stuff like my chemistry book.”

“I didn’t know you were so fond of science,” Stiles quips.

Scott makes a frustrated noise. Then the wind is muffled, like Scott has his hand over the phone and his mouth. “My chemistry book with a note in it that I would rather Derek not find.”

“Oh.” Stiles grins, squinting in the sun. “I get it. You want me to go get your stuff because Derek might go pawing through it like a creeper and find a random note from Allison and... ?”

“I don’t know,” Scott shrieks, his voice small over the phone line. “Burn down their house or something!”

“Lucky that Señor Argent has whisked them off to France then,” Stiles replies as he surveys the yard again. He’s definitely going to need a rototiller for a project this big. 

“Stiles, come on,” Scott moans. 

“Fine,” Stiles snaps. “But you owe me.”

“So much,” Scott agrees. “Thank you. See you in two weeks, buddy,” he chirps and then hangs up.

Stiles slides his phone into the side pocket of his shorts. 

The vegetable garden will have to wait. 

 

\-----

 

Stiles drives to Derek’s new apartment with the windows all the way down. 

There is no air conditioning in the Jeep. 

He contemplates taking his shirt off, but decides against it because he doesn’t actually want to be one of those d-bags that cruises around town shirtless, alone.

At the apartment, Stiles knocks briefly, then lets himself in when he realizes that the door is open. 

“Derek? Hello?”

He spots Scott’s bag in the corner by the couch and grabs it. As he straightens up, he sees that the window on the opposite side of the room is all the way open. 

Derek is sitting on the fire escape outside. His back is a long, curved line in the sun.

“Hey, dude,” Stiles calls, crossing the room. 

Derek doesn’t respond. 

For a brief moment, Stiles hears a voice in his head calling, _‘Danger, danger, Will Robinson’_ but he ignores it and sticks his head out the window. “Derek?”

There’s a prick in his neck like a bee sting.

Stiles slaps a hand over it and watches as Derek slumps over to the side.

_Well, shit,_ Stiles thinks and then everything is black.

 

\-----

 

Stiles wakes up and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. He slams his eyes shut again.

He’s in the basement. The Argent basement. Which is impossible because all of the Argents are supposed to be either dead or out of the country.

Stiles tries to move his arms, but they’re cuffed behind him, around the support column that he’s leaning against. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

He bangs his head back against the column and yanks at the cuffs on his wrists until it hurts. 

There are slow, steady footsteps upstairs.

Stiles’ breathing increases ten-fold. His fingers start to tingle and the room takes a crazy spin to the left.

“Don’t panic,” he mumbles to himself, eyes closed tight. “Don’t do it. Don’t freak out.” 

The not panicking thing would be much easier if he could actually _breathe_ though.

“Stiles,” someone hisses and kicks his foot.

Stiles opens his eyes. 

Derek is sitting on the floor opposite him, cuffed to the bottom of the stairs.

Stiles guesses that, given the Argents’ fascination with electricity, the colorful wires trailing under the neck of Derek’s t-shirt are not there to monitor his heart rhythm, especially with how sweaty and exhausted he looks.

Derek twitches and presses the sole of his sneaker against Stiles’ where their feet meet on the cold, cement floor between them. “Stop it. That’s not going to help.”

Stiles scoffs. “You probably don’t know this, but I happen to have some really unpleasant, panic-inducing memories of this particular basement.”

Derek breathes out heavily though his nose. “I haven’t exactly had any great experiences with the Argents either, but freaking out is not going to help. ”

And he’s right. The bastard. 

Stiles gulps in a deep breath and tries to slow his racing heart. “Okay. Chill. Right. Sure. No problem.” 

He scans the basement. The sub-ground windows are blocked off with heavy curtains, but there’s a light on at the top of the stairs. 

“Did you see them?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. You didn’t either?”

Derek jerks his head to the side. “No.”

“Well, it’s got to be the Argents, right? I mean, this is their house, but they’re supposed to be in France. Mr. Argent thought getting away would help Allison, you know, _deal_.”

“They’re not here,” Derek says, leaning his head back and taking a deep breath.

“You can smell that?” Stiles wrinkles up his nose. “Okay. So who is?”

“I don’t know.” Derek frowns. “A man, I think, but something’s different... wrong.”

Stiles thinks back to the last time Derek had struggled to describe a supernatural being. “It’s not like the Kanima, is it?”

“No, not a shapeshifter. He smells weird, like sickness but not really.”

“Okay,” Stiles drawls. “I could keep guessing, but it’d be a lot quicker if you just spilled.”

Derek glares. “I don’t know who or what it actually is.”

“Great. Okay. So we just wait? That’s awesome. My favorite. Waiting. Waiting to die.” His voice cracks and he tries to take a slow breath.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks open. 

“Don’t be so macabre, Mr. Stilinski.” 

The rest of the lights flicker on. 

Gerard is standing at the top of the stairs.

 

\-----

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps. “You... You are supposed to be dead.”

Gerard clasps his hands together as he descends the stairs. “Oh, Stiles. You have so much to learn. Never call someone dead unless there’s a body, right Derek?”

Derek looks up at the man, features blank and stony.

Gerard smiles down at him and then turns to Stiles. “Not very talkative, that one. But you are, aren’t you?”

Stiles stares him down. “Screw you, old man.” 

It’s always amazed Stiles how when faced with real, in your face danger all of his panic fades away into a cool, sarcastic front.

It’s always amazed him how much trouble that gets him into.

Gerard’s fist cracks across his cheek like a clap of thunder in his skull.

“Seriously,” Stiles moans, when the world comes back into focus. 

Gerard grabs his jaw and rams his head back into the pole behind him. 

His skull rattles in painful waves.

Stiles’ tongue feels too big when he tries to speak. “Seriously... Do we really have to do this again?”

Gerard rears back for another hit, when Derek speaks up.

“The mountain ash didn’t kill you.”

Gerard spins to face him. “How observant.”

Stiles squints over as Derek squares his jaw. His lips barely move when he speaks. 

“Are you a werewolf?”

“Can’t you tell, great Alpha that you are?” Gerard sneers.

Derek twitches. His jaw shakes. “I know you’re not human.”

Stiles doesn’t know how or when it happened, but somewhere along the line, he learned the subtle differences in expression that give away Derek’s emotions. Right now, he’s terrified and trying hard not to show it. 

It doesn’t help Stiles’ own nerves at all.

Gerard tilts his head to the side. “You’re right. But, I’m not a werewolf yet either. Though I’m sure another, less _contaminated_ bite will do the trick.”

Derek’s features harden further. “I won’t do it.”

Gerard shrugs. “I’d imagined it would take some convincing.” 

He strolls over to a box on the wall and flips a plain-looking switch.

Stiles jumps when Derek _howls_ and begins convulsing on the floor. 

His cries taper off into choking gasps even as his limbs continue to spasm and shake.

“Stop,” Stiles shouts, heart thundering in his chest at the sight in front of him. “Stop it. Jesus, you’re going to kill him.”

Gerard flips the switch back and Derek goes boneless on the cement floor, his arms twisted awkwardly behind him.

“That would be inconvenient, wouldn’t it?” Gerard asks innocently. He winks at Stiles. “I’ll see you boys in a little while. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

As soon as the door closes at the top of the stairs, Stiles stretches to push at Derek’s feet with his own. “Hey. Hey, Derek. Please don’t be dead.”

Derek groans. “‘I’m not dead.” He shoulders his way back into a sitting position, leaned back against the stairs and breathing heavily. 

“We’ve got to get out of here. Can you break out of the cuffs?” Stiles twists his own wrists in the metal bracelets. He considers breaking his thumb, but the cuff is too tight even for that.

“There’s a continuous current,” Derek says, eyeing the wires that disappear under his collar. “I can’t... I can’t shift.” 

Stiles lets his head thud back against the column behind him. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks. His eyes flick over Stiles’ face.

“I’m fine,” Stiles spits out, without even thinking. He can’t think about the throbbing in his face right now. Definitely can’t think about Gerard’s creepy vise hands and oddly sharp teeth.

Derek raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question him further.

“We just need to get out of here,” Stiles says. His voice sounds too loud, desperate, even to his own ears, but he can’t help it. “Are you sure you can’t break the cuffs? Can you howl for someone?”

Derek shakes his head. “They’ve soundproofed the basement. I can’t hear anything from outside. The Argents have hunted us for too long to leave an escape.”

Stiles gapes at him. “So, what? We can’t just sit here.”

Derek twitches at a particularly strong shock. 

He says nothing.

 

\-----

 

Time passes strangely in the basement.

There’s no change in light. 

Since Derek pointed it out, even Stiles with his human ears can notice the muffled, soundlessness of the place. 

Derek’s eyes are closed, head back against the railing behind him, but Stiles knows he isn’t sleeping for the way that he shifts every few minutes.

After a moment, his eyes open and focus on Stiles. “Will your dad find you?”

Stiles ignores the lack of ‘us’ in the statement and takes the question for what it is. 

In his heart, Stiles wants to believe the answer is yes. But, the more likely answer, given the resources the Sheriff has and given the amount of time they have before Gerard gets back and does whatever he plans on doing, well...

Stiles is more realistic than he is faithful.

It hurts just to think of his dad like that. Stiles presses his lips together and bites his tongue.

Derek looks away.

Stiles knows what’s going to happen. Gerard will come back and somehow get Derek to bite him. Once the bite takes, he’ll kill Derek and then... then, Stiles isn’t naive enough to believe he’ll be let go twice.

“Do you think he’ll bite me?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

Derek doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Once he’s an Alpha and he has you under his thumb, he’ll have no problem getting Scott in line, then Isaac will follow, Allison, Chris...”

Derek is more realistic than he is kind.

Stiles lets his head thud back against the pole and then winces when the goose egg Gerard gave him rubs. His head is pounding and from the way his mouth feels, he figures at least part of the problem is the beginnings of dehydration. His lips feel dry and tight. 

“I was going to plant a garden,” he says numbly, thinking back to that morning. Had it been just that morning? He can’t be sure. It could just as easily have been last week or last year.

Derek stares at him, the slightest crease between his eyebrows.

Stiles shrugs. “That’s all. That was my plan for like, the week. That’s all I wanted to do. But, like everything I’ve planned to do in the last year, it’s not going to happen. Because of werewolves, I can’t have garden fresh tomatoes. What kind of karmic imbalance am I serving when I can’t even plant some tomatoes without getting kidnapped by a rabid old man?” 

Stiles closes his mouth when it catches up to him that he’s ranting loudly about tomatoes.

“I’m sorry,” Derek murmurs, like he’s asking a question.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s really not your fault.” 

When he realizes the weight of what he’s said and what it means, he goes on, “I wish I would’ve realized that sooner.”

Derek is looking at him like he doesn’t understand the language Stiles is speaking, like he can’t understand why someone would allow him the absence of blame.

“You know this whole mess isn’t your fault, right?” Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head. “Why are you saying that?”

“Uh, because it’s true? I mean, getting Isaac and Erica and Boyd involved was your idea and probably not the smartest thing ever, but Scott and Allison and the Argents? Not your fault. At all.”

“You don’t know everything,” Derek replies stiffly.

“I know enough,” Stiles snaps.

Derek closes his mouth. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay? Okay. Right.” Stiles deflates, having braced himself for more of a fight than that. He licks his lips, reminded of just how thirsty he is. “I would kill for a giant Slush Puppy right now.”

After a moment, Derek hums in agreement. “At the gas station on Spring Street.”

“Definitely the best,” Stiles agrees. He eyes Derek carefully, then presses his toes against the sole of his shoe. “Red, Blue, or Coke?”

Derek scoffs. “Blue.” 

He turns his other foot to rest the toes against Stiles’ ankle. 

Stiles manages to smile, but the sound of footsteps upstairs sends panic shaking back through him.

Derek struggles to sit up straighter.

When the basement door opens, Stiles’ heart starts to pound. He wonders if Derek can hear it, wonders if his heart is pounding, too.

Gerard comes down the stairs lugging a portable, silver oxygen tank on wheels. 

“Had to visit with the doctor.” He smiles. 

He walks over to the switches on the wall and Stiles panics. He can’t watch that again. 

“Hey, any chance you hit up McDonald’s while you were out?” he asks, thinking fast. “I’ve got a wicked craving for some chicken nuggets and, being the gracious host that you are, I think—”

Gerard flips the switch.

Stiles closes his eyes, but he can still hear Derek’s barely contained groans as the electricity courses through him.

When Derek’s feet stop jerking against his own—thank you, whoever decided shoes should have non-conductive, rubber soles—Stiles opens his eyes.

Gerard is dragging the oxygen tank over. He leans over to strap the mask onto Derek while he’s still slumped over and trying to catch his breath.

Stiles has a hard time believing Gerard actually cares about Derek’s oxygen levels. 

He leans back and brings both feet up, then kicks them out into Gerard’s leg.

The man stumbles, but catches himself on the stair railing. 

He whirls on Stiles, his hands already fisted. 

Stiles doesn’t even get a chance to open his mouth before Gerard is on him.

 

\-----

 

The entire basement has a haze over it. 

Stiles twists his head to wipe his eyes on his shirt sleeve. It doesn’t help and the movement sends sharp pains racing through his torso. His right shoulder is a throbbing, giant knot of hurt.

Across from him, Derek looks like he’s in a haze of his own. He’s slumped against the stairs, heavy breaths fogging the plastic mask over his mouth.

Stiles follows the tubing with his eyes, from the mask to the silver canister hissing on the floor.

“What—” Stiles chokes and spits. Blood? It looks like blood, dark and thick on the cold, cement floor. He tries again. “What is that?”

Derek blinks heavily. “‘S’wolfsbane. Gas.”

Stiles knows how that works. He got the whole story of Victoria’s evil plan from Scott, how he couldn’t breath like during an asthma attack, and how the vaporized poison had disoriented Derek enough to bite her in defense.

“Get it off,” Stiles snaps. “Get the mask off. Can’t you just—”

Derek’s eyes drift off to the floor, unfocused.

“Hey.” Stiles presses his foot against Derek’s, urgency thrumming through him. “Come on. _Come on._ ”

He doesn’t realize he’s yelling until Gerard’s voice cuts him off. 

“Mr. Stilinski, calm down. There’s no need for hysterics.”

Stiles tries not to twitch at the man’s presence. “I’m pretty sure this is exactly the time for hysterics. If ever there has been a time for hysterics, this is it.”

“Please, relax,” Gerard coos, full of condescending sweetness. “You’ve got a front row seat and it’s show time.”

He steps over Derek’s legs and pulls the mask off his face.

Stiles can’t see past Gerard’s back, but he hears the crack of his open palm on Derek’s face.

Derek groans, a rumbling warning from deep in his chest. 

Stiles presses his feet more firmly against Derek’s and feels an answering pressure back, even as Gerard slaps him again.

“Come on, Derek. Show me those teeth.”

Derek’s growls grow louder. One more hit from Gerard and he roars, teeth extending.

Gerard shoves his arm into Derek’s mouth, smiling as the fangs break his skin. “Yes,” he crows. With his free hand, he reaches out to pet Derek’s hair roughly. “Such a good boy.”

Stiles watches, numb. His face and ribs throb in time with the hyper pounding of his heart.

After a moment, Gerard steps back and examines the bite mark on his arm. He holds it out like a trophy. 

“Only a matter of time, now.” He nods at Stiles. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

When he’s gone, Stiles turns his attention to Derek. 

Gerard’s blood runs down his chin from his mouth. His eyes are closed and the gas mask continues to hiss on the floor beside him.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, hating himself a little when his voice cracks. “Hey. We’ve got to... We’ve got to do something. I don’t want... ” _for you to die... to be a werewolf... for Gerard to fuck with the lives of everyone I care about. Again._

He presses his feet up against Derek’s, noticing for the first time how they line up perfectly, heel to toe like a matching set. The contact makes him feel more solid, grounded. 

“Derek, please.”

Derek’s head rolls heavily against the stairs behind him. “I can’t...”

Stiles twitches. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t think,” Derek says slowly, like the words are stuck in syrup.

“Okay. That’s okay. I’ll think for both of us,” Stiles rambles. He’s good at thinking about all kinds of things. Not so good at focusing on what’s important though, and it doesn’t help that he hasn’t had any Adderall in the day or so that they’ve been here. Everything feels ping-pongy and too loud in his brain. 

“When’s the full moon?”

Derek stares blankly for a full thirty seconds before answering. “Two days.”

“So we have until then before Gerard... you know. Of course, that’s assuming dehydration doesn’t kill us first or wolfsbane gas or internal bleeding...” Stiles trails off.  
No, thinking about his own injuries and the glaring agony from his shoulder down into his stomach does not help. At all. Commence denial.

“Scott’s away. The Argents are out-of-town. What about Isaac? Peter?” 

Stiles doesn’t really expect an answer out of Derek any more than he actually expects Peter Hale to come save them. 

Derek’s eyes are closed again.

The wolfsbane filled oxygen tank continues to hiss beside him.

Stiles slumps against the pole behind him and lets the exhaustion take him.

 

\-----

 

Waking up is hard.

Stiles feels a little cold and hot at the same time, feverish and fatigued down to his bones. His eyes feel swollen. 

When he finally gets his eyes open and focuses, he jolts at the sight of Gerard crouched in front of Derek.

“It’s too bad I have to kill you,” Gerard is saying. “If I could become Alpha without it, I’d keep you around for awhile.”

He grips Derek’s hair at the crown of his head, his other arm held tense at his side. “All my life, I’ve never had a pet. Kate told me how well-behaved you were for her. Housebroken and everything.”

Derek is studiously focused on a spot on the wall. He looks like he might never come back from the far off place he’s gone to in his mind.

Stiles opens his mouth and coughs. He licks his lips and tries again. “Get a goldfish.”

Gerard twists to glare at him. “I didn’t invite suggestions.”

Stiles shrugs with his one good shoulder. “It'd be cheaper. More compact. Won’t try to bite you. I could go on.”

“Please, don’t,” Gerard sneers. He’s still glaring at Stiles when Derek moves.

He snaps his head forward and head-butts Gerard in the ear. 

The old man sprawls across the floor.

Derek brings his knees up then kicks out, heels connecting with Gerard’s back. It’s weak though, and Stiles sees why when his eyes land on the knife Gerard had buried in Derek’s side.

Pure adrenaline and rage runs through him like a shot of super strength. 

Stiles brings his knees up just as Gerard is shoving himself up to his feet. Stiles kicks out with everything that he has, all his anger at this man, who has in one way or another hurt every single person he cares about.

Gerard tumbles forward. His head connects with the stair railing beside Derek with an echoing crack and he slumps down, unconscious.

Stiles brings his knees back up to his chest, panting. 

Derek shifts and grimaces, holding himself stiff.

Stiles' eyes land on the knife again and he gags. “Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.”

Derek’s eyes are intense and steady on him. “No, you’re not.”

“I really, really beg to differ,” Stiles chokes out, watching the knife move with every breath Derek takes. His stomach flops like a beached fish. 

“You’re okay,” Derek says in the middle of a wince. “Just take a deep breath, Stiles. Come on.”

Stiles tries. It just feels like his nose is stuffed beyond all reason. He breathes slowly through his mouth and eyes Gerard’s still form on the floor between them.  
 “Is he dead?”

Derek glances over the man. “No.”

Stiles watches Gerard for a long moment, then glances at the growing puddle of blood beneath Derek. “Shit. _Shit._ Oh my God. What—What do we do?”

Derek levels him with a steady gaze. “Stiles. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay. Even if he bites you, you’ll be fine. You and Scott, you can beat him. You’ll be strong together.”

Stiles listens with a growing knot in his stomach. He bites his tongue against the sarcastic reply that wants to come out, because _seriously, Derek, those are your last words? That's your great farewell speech?_

It truth of it hits Stiles harder than either of Gerard's fists.

They could be Derek's last words and he’s giving them all to Stiles and to making sure he knows it will be okay. 

Stiles nods and adjusts his feet against Derek’s, where they are connected and grounded. “Thank you.”

Derek nods at him and then leans his head back against the stairs. His eyes never leave Stiles’.

It could be minutes or hours later when his eyes finally slide closed. 

If Stiles cries for awhile shivering there on the floor, well, there’s no one awake to see.

 

\-----

 

Stiles jolts awake at the sound of the basement door slamming open. Heavy feet thunder down the stairs and Stiles is certain he’s dreaming when he makes out the blurry form of his dad and five deputies. 

The Sheriff lowers his gun and falls to his knees beside Stiles, hands everywhere, but not touching.

Stiles licks his lips. He clears his throat. “Are you real?”

The Sheriff finally rests his hands on either side of Stiles’s face. “Yes. I’m real. I’m right here, son. It’s going to be okay.”

Stiles twitches at the assurance. He tries to peer over his dad’s shoulder. “Derek?”

The Sheriff doesn’t even look back. “It’s going to be okay. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

Someone grasps at Stiles wrists and he tries to jerk away until he realizes it’s one of the new deputies, unlocking his cuffs. His arms come free and he groans, leaning forward at the ache and sting of pins and needles racing up and down his arms. His shoulder feels swollen beyond movement, like a heavy, unconnected part of him. 

Another officer leans close to him and Stiles jolts. He doesn’t recognize the man, doesn’t want him that close, doesn’t want anyone that close.

The whine that escapes him was probably supposed to be words, but he can’t find them in the pained, panicked haze that is everything in his head. 

The Sheriff barks at everyone to back off. His hands feel huge, like baseball mitts, when they pull Stiles close.

Stiles melts, because he has nothing left, just pain and panic seizing through him. He hides his face in his dad’s coat and tries to breathe.

 

\-----

 

A severely dislocated shoulder. A broken nose. Three broken ribs. Dehydration. More bruises and abrasions than he can count. 

Stiles doesn’t look in the mirror. 

He lies in the hospital bed, watching the saline drip down the IV line, one drop at a time.

He doesn’t ask about Derek, because he doesn’t want to hear it and have it confirmed.

His dad explains that Gerard was out of control when they got to the house. That he was out of his mind, raving about the full moon and changing and waving a gun around.

Stiles guesses that a concussion, plus going through the change, plus being straight up crazy will do that to you.

When Gerard had fired said gun, one of the new deputies had taken the killing shot.

Stiles feels no satisfaction in hearing the news. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

The Sheriff hovers over him all day, sighing and frowning and trying to get him to talk. Finally, at the end of the day, he assigns two officers to stand outside the door and tells Stiles he’s running home for some food and a change of clothes.

When he’s gone and the room door closes, Stiles twists over onto his side and shoves his face into the flat pillow. It makes every bruise on his face ache, but he doesn't have the energy to care. 

Behind him, the door opens again.

“I’ll be fine, dad. Just go,” he mumbles, not moving.

Soft footsteps circle the bed and Stiles opens his eyes.

Peter Hale smiles down at him. “Hello.”

Stiles jolts and pushes himself up higher in the bed. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in on you, of course. My nephew was very concerned with your well-being.”

“Was,” Stiles repeats robotically and nods. It’s the confirmation he didn’t want.

Peter tilts his head to the side. “Is.”

Stiles glares. “Don’t mess with me right now.”

Peter’s confused face only deepens. “Stiles, Derek is sleeping on a disgusting, old couch in the back room at Doctor Deaton’s right now. Healing, once again, because of the Argents.”

Stiles stares at him. 

They actually made it out of there.

Their time spent in the basement actually happened.

Gerard is gone for good.

It’s everything Stiles didn’t want to let himself believe. Despite the pain in his limbs, he pulls his knees up to his chest and presses his face into them, unable to control the awful, choking sobs that flood out of him. 

This is his life. He couldn’t have his breakdown alone, or in front of his dad, or even in front of Scott or Derek. No, it has to be Peter Hale.

“Hmm,” Peter sighs, as though observing an animal from afar. “Emotional trauma. How unpleasant.”

Then, his hand settles on the aching space between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “I hate the Argents, too, but trust me, they’re really not worth crying about.”

Despite himself, Stiles laughs. It feels hysterical, bubbling up out of him in between tears. The entire thing, his entire life, is completely absurd.

He sits up just enough to point at the door. “Please, go.”

Peter nods. “Happily.”

 

\-----

 

Later, the Sheriff tells Stiles that it had been Peter that gave them the tip about Gerard, then demanded to accompany them on their call to the house. 

Apparently, Peter had swooped in and taken Derek away to a ‘family physician’ before anyone even knew what had happened.

Still, both of them have to make a statement and that’s how Stiles finds himself sitting in his dad’s office the next day, staring at the wall behind his desk.

Right arm in a sling, he fingers the bottle of pain medication in his left pocket and wonders if it’s time he could take another yet.

The door creaks open behind him.

Stiles doesn’t move as Derek comes over to sit in the chair beside him. 

Inside, he’s screaming, hysterical, ‘ _I thought you were dead. I thought I was dead._ ’

Derek watches him from the corner of his eye, like maybe he’s thinking the same things.

Stiles clears his throat carefully. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, proud of himself when his voice doesn’t crack.

“You, too,” Derek says. His voice does crack, broken open on the _you_.

The Sheriff bustles in behind them and Derek sits up straight, paying attention.

There’s paperwork and questions. Stiles zones out for most of it, only brought back by a gentle pressure over his toes.

He looks over.

Derek looks tense, his posture stiff. He’s angled his foot over Stiles’, resting his sneaker over Stiles’ gym shoe.

Stiles bounces his toes up and down, once, to let Derek know, _I’m here_.

Derek presses down more firmly, just for a moment. _Me, too_.

 

\-----

 

_Epilogue_

It’s the end of July by the time the ache in Stiles’ ribs fades enough that he can bend and kneel in the garden.

His dad and Scott had done all of the planting while Stiles had been laid up in bed, like some weird, growing apology for what had happened.

The garden doesn’t encompass the entire yard like he’d originally envisioned, but it does take up a generous and sunny corner in the back. 

Stiles sits down on the dirt, in the shade between the corn stalks and the tall tomato plants. 

Derek sits a few feet down the row, steadily pulling weeds and tossing them in a bucket beside him.

Stiles smiles at him. “You’re really into this. I’ve seen you out here every week.”

Derek glances over. “I grew up gardening.”

“Really?” Stiles squints at him. “You mean, at your house? Like a bunch of werewolves had a vegetable garden?”

Derek smirks. “We had some vegetables. Flowers. Mostly herbs and spices though, things we could use to season the rabbits we caught.”

Stiles stares at him until Derek cracks, breaking into a wide grin. 

Stiles throws a clump of dirt at him. “You’re a liar! A perpetuator of stereotypes! An _omnivore_!”

Derek just shrugs.

Stiles watches him as he continues to weed. Sweat makes his shirt cling to his back. 

In the shadowed space between rows of plants, hidden from the house and the rest of the world, Stiles feels safe enough to ask the question that’s been burning in his mind for weeks.

“We’re friends, right?”

Derek stops and sits back on his heels.

“I wasn’t sure because Scott’s really my only friend and we, like, made it official with a handshake and spit and everything, but that was a long time ago. And I know friendship doesn’t always have to be made official—” Stiles makes air quotes with his fingers “—but I don’t really know how it works otherwise and I tend to over analyze. We never had a handshake, but we’ve basically been to war together and were, like, POW’s, you know?” 

Stiles squints at Derek. “So, I think that counts for something. I like you and I’d like if we could be friends, at least.” He exhales and looks down at the dirt. His hands shake a little, fingers pressed into the soil. 

Derek moves without a sound. On his knees, across the dirt, he wraps his arms around Stiles and halfway falls onto him. “More than,” he breathes right into Stiles’s ear.

“Oh.” Stiles brings his arms up and clings to Derek. “Okay. Alright. I can... I can definitely work with that.”

Derek turns his face into Stiles’ neck and relaxes against him.

Stiles holds him tighter and wonders when the last time someone hugged Derek was, or even just touched him without the intent to hurt.

Then, he wonders the same thing for himself, having spent the last month skirting away from his dad and Scott’s overly gentle hands.

He turns his head and presses his lips to Derek’s damp temple. “We’re going to be okay.”

Derek sighs, warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ neck. “I know.”

 

\-----


End file.
